After the Kiss

by Lauren Layne

  He wiggled his eyebrows as he handed her the coffee cup, his eyes locked on her exposed breasts. She followed his gaze and rolled her eyes. “Can you hand me a T-shirt?”

  Mitchell didn’t move, instead taking a very deliberate bite of bagel. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because I’m fairly sure that bagel crumbs on my boobs isn’t going to rate very highly on the sexy factor, and I’d like to get laid again.”

  He paused in mid-chew. “By me?”

  “That depends.”

  “On?”

  “On whether or not you get me a damned T-shirt.”

  As much as he’d been looking forward to breakfast with a view, he opened the dresser drawer Julie had indicated and pulled out the first T-shirt on top of the pile.

  He looked closer, and chuckled. “Minnie Mouse?”

  She snapped her fingers. “Give it.”

  Mitchell threw the shirt her way before gathering up the ten extra pillows that every woman invariably had lying around and creating a pillow wall for them to lean against.

  “I love breakfast in bed, don’t you?” she asked around a mouthful of bagel.

  “Not really,” he said, watching her take a big bite. “I hate crumbs in my bed.”

  “But this is my bed.”

  “Which I’m in.”

  Her honey eyes smoked over, making him think of whisky by the firelight. “Do you plan to be a frequent guest?” she asked huskily.

  “Am I invited?”

  “Depends. Am I still just a fling?”

  She gazed at him steadily, and he realized that even if he told her yes, that she was a fling, she’d deal with it. Probably even accept it as her due.

  Damn if that didn’t just tear at his heart a little.

  He wanted to disrupt her. Turn her low expectations upside down. What that meant for his deal with Colin, he didn’t know. He’d figure it out later.

  But for now …

  “Want to get crumbs in my bed tomorrow?” he said, brushing a strand of hair off her cheek.

  She took a sip of coffee, watching him warily. “What about answering my question about being a fling?”

  “I thought I just did.”

  He held his breath, and then let it out in a whoosh when she gave a slow, happy little smile. And just like that, he was forgiven. He should have known it would be that way with Julie. She wouldn’t demand endless explanations or indulge in prolonged talks. There were no games with Julie.

  Just straightforward communication and sweet forgiveness.

  “Why, Mitchell Forbes, are you invitin’ me over to your pad?” she asked in her best southern belle voice.

  “I believe I am, little lady.”

  “I accept. Are we defiling another nightclub first?”

  Mitchell took a deliberate sip of coffee, finding he couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “Actually, I was thinking we should stay in tonight.”

  Julie froze. “Oh?”

  He took a deep breath and pushed Colin and box seats at Yankee Stadium out of his mind. For now.

  “Yeah,” he said, giving her a half smile. “Now tell me, how do you feel about butter on your popcorn?”

  * * *

  “I told you we should have ordered the pizza.”

  Julie stared down at the plasticky mess. “But this was a frozen pizza. Grace said it was supposed to be easy.”

  Mitchell picked up the box and gave it a wry glance. “Did Grace also mention that you’re supposed to remove the plastic? Because the box does.”

  “Let me see that,” she said, snatching the box.

  Sure enough: Remove plastic before placing in oven. It was even in bold.

  So much for her second attempt at domestication. It hadn’t gone any better than her chicken attempt, and that at least had required real chopping.

  “Also,” Mitchell added, poking the pizza disaster with a tentative finger, “I’m pretty sure that broil and bake are not interchangeable.”

  They aren’t?

  “Well, that’s just great,” she said grumpily. “I’m so glad you have all these advanced kitchen skills you decided not to share.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Who’s that?” she asked.

  Mitchell planted a quick peck on the top of her head as he slid past her to grab his wallet from the counter. “Pizza guy.”

  Julie’s mouth dropped open, even as her appetite surged in gratitude. “What do you mean, the pizza guy? When did you order pizza? I told you on my way over that I had dinner planned.”

  “And that’s when I called the pizza guy,” he called over his shoulder.

  Julie’s lips pursed in thoughtfulness as she swept her failed pizza into his garbage can. She was certainly racking up ideas for her article today.

  How to get him to invite you over: Ply him with wild sex and half-naked eating in bed.

  How to know when he knows you: When he’s formulated a solution to your screw-ups before they even happen.

  “What kind did you get?” she asked, pulling plates out of his cupboard.

  “Some greasy meat special. Grab a couple of wineglasses, would you?”

  She complied, her hand faltering slightly as she realized she knew exactly where to find them.

  Another first. Knowing her way around a man’s kitchen.

  Mitchell plucked the glasses from her hand as he pulled a bottle from his built-in wine rack. She grabbed the pizza box, the plates, and a roll of paper towels and followed him to the couch. They settled side by side, their arms companionably moving above and below each other’s as they got situated with pizza and wine.

  Mitchell reached for the remote when they both had a full plate and glass, and Julie froze as the realization swept over her.

  This was it.

  This was movie night.

  She waited for the wave of self-loathing and the depressing suspicion that her sexiest years were behind her.

  Instead she felt … relaxed. Contented. Happy.

  “What are you so smiley about?” he asked, shooting her a glance as he navigated through his On Demand menu.

  “Nothing,” she said, giving a smug little wiggle of giddiness. Just happy about you.

  “So what are we watching?” he asked, scrolling through the options. “Action, comedy, some stupid drama?”

  Julie thought about suggesting the romantic comedy he’d just scrolled past on the menu, but she wasn’t brave enough. There was taking things to the next level and then there was taking things to the romantic-comedy level. She didn’t want to push her luck.

  “You pick,” she said magnanimously.

  He snorted. “I hate it when women say that.”

  “Know what I hate?” she said, watching him rip off several paper towels. “People who dab the grease off their pizza. If you don’t want junk food, don’t order a pizza.”

  Mitchell ignored her. “I hate when women tell men to pick a movie, because one of two things invariably happens. Either they make some sort of passive-aggressive comment once he’s happily made his choice, letting her know that she’s disappointed with a capital D. Or they just complain outright the whole damned time.”

  She chewed. Considered. Swallowed. “That’s true. Good point. Want me to pick?”

  “Hell, no,” he muttered, selecting some war biopic. “I’d rather listen to you whine than suffer through that romantic comedy I skipped.”

  Julie glanced at his profile, pleased to see that he looked as relaxed and happy as she felt.

  “Can I ask you something?” she said, feeling gutsy as she took a sip of her wine.

  “Great, yet another gem from the female set,” he muttered.

  “You like sports, right?”

  He shot her a startled look. “Sure, most of ’em. Baseball, mostly.”

  “Right, that’s what you told me that first night. You love baseball. But in the time we’ve been … dating”—she said the word hesitantly—“I’ve never seen you watch a game. Or even suggest
watching a game. And I’m not the biggest sports geek out there, but I’m pretty sure we’re in the middle of the Yankees season right now.”

  Something sharp passed over his face at the mention of the Yankees, but it disappeared before she could identify it. He slid another piece of pizza onto each of their plates as he seemed to be pondering her question. Julie sipped her wine and let him work it out. At first his pregnant pauses and apparent need to have every word selected before opening his mouth had bothered her. But she’d gotten used to it. Liked it, even. No wasted words ever escaped Mitchell Forbes.

  “I record the games,” he said finally. “And watch them when I have free time.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “And Saturday night doesn’t count as free time?”

  “Okay, honestly? If we’re going to be all sharey and shit? Evelyn hated baseball. So have all my previous girlfriends.”

  Julie shook her head in bafflement. “Sugar, I’m thinking half the women in America fall somewhere between hate and lukewarm on the subject of the New York Yankees. But I’m pretty sure there’s such a thing as compromise in relationships.”

  He shot her a knowing look. “Did you read that in one of Grace’s articles?”

  Julie gave a guilty smile. “I proof all her stuff; I guess I picked up a few things.”

  “I’d say you have a natural knack for it,” he said, taking a bite of degreased pizza. “You seem to be doing pretty well in this relationship.”

  Julie was in the process of bringing her pizza to her mouth, and at his words she nearly fumbled the slice. She forced herself to take a bite despite the launch of butterflies in her stomach.

  Was this it? He’d said relationship. They were having movie night. And he’d slept over last night.

  Had she just taken things to the next level?

  Did this mean she could be done with her undercover assignment? And the most important question of all … did she want to be done?

  The pizza felt stuck in her throat, and she washed it down with a swallow of the excellent wine.

  “You okay?” he asked, completely oblivious to the firestorm of confusion he’d just unleashed.

  “Yup!” Julie desperately wanted to lunge for the remote and start a movie, any movie, to avoid this conversation.

  But then again … weren’t these types of conversations exactly the purpose of her article? To coach women how to have the “relationship” talk with the man they were kinda sorta seeing, she had to have one first.

  God, this sucks.

  Julie mentally slapped on her big-girl panties and turned to face him. “So, Wall Street, what made you change your mind about movie night?”

  He set his own plate aside and leaned forward to refill their wineglasses—generously. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who was nervous.

  “Why is movie night so important to you?” he asked in response.

  Because it’s the hallmark of everything I’ve never wanted. The sign that I’ve done my duty to Stiletto and can get back to my old life. My real life.

  “Probably for the same reason you balked at it last night,” she said bluntly. “Because it means something.”

  He looked at her. Looked away. “I know what it means. Why do you think I suggested it?”

  Julie didn’t think it was possible to choke on one’s heart, but it certainly felt like her heart had lodged somewhere near her esophagus. “But last night you said—”

  “Last night I was a scared little boy who thought I’d be happy with a quick lay and a few laughs over the occasional dinner.”

  “And now?” she whispered.

  His fingers drifted over her cheek, a whisper of a touch. “Now I’m a man, spending a quiet evening with a woman I’m crazy about.”

  Something tore open inside her, and she didn’t know if it was regret, terror, or wild, senseless joy.

  She closed her eyes and turned her cheek into his palm. “Mitchell?”

  “Yeah?” His voice was husky.

  Julie kissed his palm, the gesture feeling like something between a promise and a goodbye. She didn’t know which. “Let’s watch baseball,” she said softly.

  Twin dimples of boyish wonder appeared on his face, and the look of sheer joy there was worth the messier parts of this little relationship charade. And when he flipped on the ball game, then pulled her against him, resting his cheek against the top of her head as their hands fought for the last slice of pizza, it didn’t feel like a charade at all.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Jules, you can’t quit now. You have him exactly where you want him,” Riley said as she signaled to the waitress for another round of drinks.

  It would be Julie’s third cocktail, which was a good deal more than she should be having on a random Wednesday night when she still had work to do, but this was no ordinary weekday.

  Camille had stopped by the Dating, Love, and Sex office to remind them that they were one week away from the first-draft deadline for August’s issue. One week until she was supposed to put whatever was happening with Mitchell on paper. One week until she sold him out for the sake of a story.

  She needed more drinks. But more than the booze, Julie needed her girlfriends. Or at least she’d thought she’d needed them. Unfortunately, neither one was shaping up to be the beacon of infinite supportive wisdom that she’d been hoping for.

  Grace was wearing her disappointed face, and every prim sip of her chardonnay seemed to scream, You’re a dirty, dirty whore. And Riley was even less helpful, insisting that Julie push through with the ridiculous plan.

  “Yeah, I know he’s where I want him,” Julie said, trying to drink away the feeling of self-loathing. “That’s kind of my point. Mission accomplished. Now it’s time to wrap this thing up and write the damned story already.”

  “Are you sure you have enough?” Riley said, scrunching up her face. “One night of baseball watching isn’t exactly a marriage proposal.”

  Grace shot Riley an annoyed look.

  “What?” Riley muttered. “It’s baseball.”

  You weren’t there. It was more. But had it been? Really? Or was she putting way too much stock in the importance of movie night? Or sports night, as it had turned out to be. It wasn’t as though there had been love words exchanged. And the next morning when she’d accompanied him on his morning run, it wasn’t as if he’d dragged her by Tiffany’s on the way back.

  Something unfamiliar rippled through her at the thought of the jewelry store, and she waited for the usual sense of dread to pour over her at the notion of one of those tiny little jewelry boxes and what they meant.

  But there was no dread. No disdain. No terror.

  That’s what was unfamiliar.

  She’d let the image of a freaking engagement ring roll around in her brain and hadn’t wanted to amputate the fourth finger of her left hand “just in case.”

  Oh, good God.

  “Look,” Riley said in a gentler voice. “I know you feel kind of hooker-ish about the whole situation, but you said yourself this was just good sex and companionship. Maybe you guys can keep things going once you get the story written. Maybe he won’t even care.”

  “You don’t know him,” she muttered. “He’s the last person to forgive someone who made him feel foolish.”

  “But you knew that all along,” Grace said. “What’s changed?”

  Julie took a sip but didn’t respond. Because she didn’t know how to respond. This should have been like the billion girl talks she’d had with Grace and Riley before, but this time it was different.

  Because Mitchell was different.

  “Uh-oh.” The uncharacteristic gentleness of Riley’s voice was nearly Julie’s undoing. She felt tears prickle the back of her eyelids, and she blinked them away.

  Grace rested a hand on her arm. “Julie, you really do like him, don’t you? It’s not just guilt anymore.”

  Julie lifted a shoulder and allowed herself a small sniffle, if only to prevent snot from dripping into her drink.
No need to taint the self-medication. “Things have gotten a little intense.”

  “Intense how?”

  Oh, I don’t know … how about the fact that I seem to be actually considering the prospect of a future with a guy for the first time ever?

  She squirmed. “I’m not sure, exactly. Nothing overtly changed. The sex got a little hotter. The cuddling got a little sweeter.”

  Riley blanched. “You cuddled? With the subject of a story?”

  Even Grace looked wary.

  “I told you, it was movie night. And he was so happy about the stupid baseball game. What was I supposed to do?”

  “But you don’t even like movie night—it’s been your benchmark for hell since forever.”

  She licked at the sugar rim of her drink, avoiding her friends’ eyes. “Yeah, I might have been kind of wrong about that.”

  “Oh, Julie,” Grace breathed in horror. “You’re in love with him.”

  “I’m not,” Julie said sharply. Saying it out loud would make it true. It couldn’t be true. She could not be in love with an uptight, baseball-watching Wall Street broker who thought reading was a hobby and running was fun.

  “Well, if you’re not in love with him, what’s the harm in letting it go on for a few more days? You still have some time before you need to write the story. Might as well stick it out. Get more material. Get more sex.”

  Get more involved, Julie mentally added.

  “No,” she said firmly. “I have everything I need. I successfully snagged a guy, flirted, let him woo me, went from casual dinners to romantic dinners, from exploratory sex to hot sex, and then I had the talk followed by movie night. What else is there to discover?”

  “Julie, that’s just the start of a real relationship,” Grace said.

  Julie snatched her hand away from her well-meaning friend. “Which was exactly the assignment. To go from casual dating to serious. From there, it’s all you.”

  “Okay,” Grace said easily.

  “What’s that?” Julie said, pointing an accusing finger at her. “What is that tone?”

  “I’m just thinking that maybe you should start looking at Mitchell in a context other than your story. You know, maybe see if things can work out.”

  Julie gave a harsh laugh. “Just because you’re happy in your domesticated little Tribeca apartment with your steady, perfect boyfriend and your scheduled sex life doesn’t mean we all want that.”